Almost

[michaelboy]

Where the boughs of the pines hang so low
to reach the almost-touching carpet of needles
I lay for hours, safely between two quiet horzions
singing my wishes to tinder-dry blackened twigs
and whitened pine-sap, dried in graceful contrast

There are things we wish
There are things we miss
But in wishing and missing
We are yet and always:
Almost touching